Area summary, according to Ilsa
Rolling hills and lush valleys southwest of the Fall, including Moss Island; many wealthy individuals have large estates here.
Our visit
Our second outing was to the Vale, a wide expanse of rolling hills and lush valleys on the western side of the Cauldron.
We took the first bridge across the Neck, where the river pinches in, for a mile or so, between the Cauldron at the base of the Falls and the Lake.
For such a short stretch of water, there are a ridiculous number of bridges spanning it. Five, in all, in less than a mile’s stretch.
Watching the water from above as our carriage (an open one – Ilsa insisted), trundled across the bridge’s arc made me wonder how they’d managed even one. The river is clearly deep and the current unnervingly fast. Anyone, or anything foolhardy enough to attempt to swim, or in any way interfere with that charge of water from falls to Lake would be dumped onto one of the Lake’s islands in a matter of minutes, if they were lucky.
Ilsa said there were boat races through the Neck every summer. After my experience with the cliffs yesterday I can believe it. These people are insane.
Thankfully this ride was rather more sedate; a comfortable carriage, pulled by a pair of well-behaved horses, no goats. The driver also seemed reassuringly calm and competent. I allowed myself to relax and admire the scenery.
The first bridge was in fact, two bridges the first span took us to Moss Island, still within the churning waters of the Cauldron, then on to the western shore.
Moss Island wasn’t large – it boasted two stone cottages, one derelict, both covered in the island’s namesake.
But why build anything here? It must have been difficult beyond belief to bring the stone and all the other building materials across, not to mention the likely ongoing battle against the damp.
When I asked Ilsa pointed to the tumble-down one. “That was built for the bridge workers,” she pointed to the other. “And that was built by the son of a family with more money than sense, as he wanted solitude in order to write his poetry.”
“Did it work?”
“He still comes out here a couple of days a week to ‘be at one with his muse’.” She leaned in close. “It’s a pity his poetry is so awful, he churns out deluges of it.”
It sounded familiar, there are several such would-be artistes at home as well, although none of them have gone quite so far as setting up their retreat in the midst of a maelstrom, with the constant roar of the waterfall and fine, all-pervading mist sending their paper soggy.
We trotted up and over the second arc, the noise and wet fading behind us, as the Vale spread before.
It was a pretty sight, green and verdant, with carefully naturalistic landscaping around houses built to impress.
We drove along wide smooth, white-gravelled roads, past estates with ornate fences and gates that said to the world “admire my home but do not enter.”
Ilsa was the perfect guide pointing out unusual features, relating stories and amusing anecdotes and discussing the relative achievements of various architects and landscape artists.
It was boring beyond belief.
We stopped for what I’d been told would be a picnic lunch in a park with a large pond. The only ‘picnic’ element of it was the setting. We were outdoors, seated on carved wooden chairs better suited to a drawing room, on either side of a polished wooden table, with staff bringing dishes straight from a kitchen set up in a picturesque gazebo a short distance away.
We were also surrounded by at least twenty other tables of varying sizes, all with people chattering and eyeing our table with knowing speculation.
I was starting to see the appeal of the Moss Island cottage.
The finished eating and yes, the meal was delicious. As we returned to the carriage, Ilsa frowned up at me. “You didn’t like it.”
“It was charming. I was simply surprised. It seems we have quite different definitions of what a picnic might be.”
And, in truth, this was at the heart of my disappointment. I’d been looking forward to her laughter and gentle teasing as I perched on a picnic rug or some uncomfortable but conveniently placed log or stone. I’d wanted to help her, or offer to help, then watch as she unpacked a basket of provisions, with simple, easy-to-transport food and drink, and enjoy it with her in the quiet sunshine, without the clamour of gossip drumming through my ears.
Ilsa’s smile said I’d somehow pleased her, and she looped her arm through mine (I’m sure the moment of silence from the crowd behind us was coincidental). “I think tomorrow’s excursion will be more to your taste.”
The DNA of Stories 